I’m slowly heaving through the gargantuan and sometimes Sisyphean task of emptying my email’s inbox. Among the little gems awaiting time to be read was an update from Another Lost Shark about this collection of poetic wisdom from Steven Heighton. I still haven’t read it, but maybe with it posted here, I’ll remember it without the pang of panic that comes from hundreds or thousands of waiting emails!
A couple of weeks ago, I joined in with a Winter Ginko in the Brisbane City Botanic Gardens – one of the events associated with the 2013 Queensland Poetry Festival. Another Lost Shark has posted some of the results, and some more, and more… and I’ll be posting one or two more of my Haiku from that morning here.
As part of the Brisbane Fringe Festival, I’m joining the poets’ team in Bukowski Actors vs. Stanislavski Poets. Organiser Jef Carus describes it as “poetry meets improvised theatre meets story structure”, “a contrived metaphor delivery system” and “fun and mayhem!” And it is.
Sunday, 9 September 2013, 4:00pm
The Box, 29 Vulture St, West End
Tickets at door: $10 Concession $5
Old sleep, you’ve waited so long for me.
Old sleep, you smell like earth, and I
Awake with hair of grey.
Old sleep, even when I called to you,
You waited somewhere darker,
Measuring my breaths, as I
Measured the stones in my heart.
Old sleep, you drank an ocean dry.
Old sleep, you’re heavy with Autumn, and I
Have no other place to go.
(For those to whom I owe correspondance)
My sister, the words may slip
from our fingers, fall like coming Autumn’s
gold and russet rain to ground,
be swept far away on careless wind,
but, dear sister, we will find them.
See? They’ve even us left a trail.
preparing to leave -
despite the lack of snow,
my footprints are deep.
For now, the smoke has given way to jasmine once more, if only the breath of memory. The air is still, but for the ripples the cicadas make, to say that this day will steam you ’til your bones grow limp.
No, the air is not still – not completely: the palm fronds dance with themselves, and the climbing spinach twirls its tendrils as I once did, reaching out for anything to take hold of.
We keep low today, crawl towards the water-hole, towards the cacophony of the gathering, towards the song of water on cool pebbles.
We long to go deeper.